


Don't Want To Think About It

by Captain_Assbut_at_221B



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel Wants Dean Winchester to be Happy, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Dean Winchester Needs to Use Actual Words, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, Implied Destiel - Freeform, Led Zeppelin References, M/M, Sam Winchester - Freeform, Sam is a Saint, Self-Harm, Self-Harming Dean Winchester, dean needs to talk, implied dean doesnt talk about relationships, sam is trying to take care of dean, sam winchester is a good brother, trigger - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-09 23:53:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20518526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Assbut_at_221B/pseuds/Captain_Assbut_at_221B
Summary: Dean never really talked about it if he could help it. It was so far in the past, he didn't like to dwell on it.Lies.Dean was over it, he had been for years.Lies.He was okay, Sam and Cass knew that right?Lies.A small fic in which dean winchester self harms, and Cass tries to help him through it. ANGSTY!





	Don't Want To Think About It

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING! THIS TALKS ABOUT SELF HARM, CUTTING, AND A LOT OF ANGST! STAY SAFE EVERYONE!

Dean sat on his bed. His headphones were playing Led Zeppelin full blast. He moved his lips in time with the words; trying to keep his mind from thinking about anything else. He didn’t want to think about the job he and Sammy just worked. He did not want to think about the fifteen year old girl they had saved. He did not want to think about what he had found when he had rolled up her sleeves. He didn’t not want to think about what he had seen when her shorts slipped up her thigh a little. He did not want to think about what she had done to herself. 

He didn’t want to think about it. 

He didn’t want to talk about it either. Sam had given up knocking on his door after about an hour. He had slipped a slice of pie through Dean’s tiny letterbox and somehow shoved a beer through there too. Dean hadn’t touched them. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to breathe. 

He didn’t want to think about it. 

He heard the bunker door open and close again. Sam was talking to someone in the hall. “No. It’s not a good day.” There was a muffled reply. “I won’t stop you, but I wouldn’t suggest it.” The voices were coming closer. Dean could make out the reply now, and who said it. Cass was out there. “Thank you Sam. I will take that into account.” His voice dropped a little. “I think I have something that might help.” Dean absentmindedly picked at his left sleeve. Always his left. He bit his lip and tried to turn Led Zeppelin up louder. It was as loud as it went.

He didn’t want to think about it. 

He expected Cass to come in. But after Sam’s heavy footfalls retreated, Cass just sat with his back against the door. He sat there for ten, fifteen minutes. And then he spoke. “Dean?” Dean didn’t answer. But he did pull one headphone off. It was almost like he could hear Cass swallow. “I know you can hear me, even through your top 13 Led Zeppelin tracks.” He paused again. “Sam told me about the hunt. Just so you know, I stopped in to see Lila, the girl you saved.” Cass paused once more. “She didn’t say much. But just in case, I healed her to be safe.” Dean looked down at the worn spot on his jeans. It had come there as a result of his nervous habit for scratching his jeans. Nervous. Nervous. Anxious. Afraid. The same four words danced in his head like a song that never stopped. 

He didn’t want to think about it. 

He heard Cass stand up, and then he opened the door. He brushed the pie and beer a little to the side and drank in the scene. Dean was sitting on his bed. His headphones were rolled up on the nightstand, but Cass could still hear faint sounds of music. Cass tried to smile. “She said to tell you thank you.” Dean nodded. “Thanks Cass, but I'm not in the party mood. Can we save it for later?” Cass shook his head and walked forward a little bit. “No, we can’t.” He sat at the foot of Dean’s bed. Dean got up to leave, but Cass caught him by the arm. He didn’t hurt him, but he was far stronger than Dean. He pulled him back and sat him down. Then with strong, calloused, and yet extraordinarily gentle fingers, he unbuttoned the cuff of his flannel and rolled it up. He kept going until he passed Dean’s elbow. Then he did the same with the other sleeve. When they both came up, sporting the usual scars and wounds he looked at Dean without a word, but with a questioning glance. Dean didn’t say anything. So Cass took his hand and pulled Dean’s flannel off of his shoulders. He checked them down to the mid bicep, and when they too came up clean he looked at him again. This time, Dean resolutely looked away. Cass sighed. “Dean, are you really going to make me do this?” Dean set his jaw and swallowed, but he still did not speak. Cass sighed again and then he moved his hands to Dean’s waistband. He unbuttoned his pants and slipped his hand down. Dean jumped back. “Whoa there tiger! At least buy me dinner first!” Cass rolled his eyes, something he picked up from Sam. “Dean, you wouldn’t talk. You know the routine.” Dean bit his lip, but he didn’t say anything. Cass sighed exasperatedly. And then slipping his hand down Dean’s upper thigh, he found, under the very middle of his boxer briefs, a series of fresh cuts. Dean cried out in surprise and slight pain as Cass probed them gently. He counted fifteen. One for every year of that girl’s life. One for every year she was alone. Cass pulled his hand back out, and Dean buttoned his pants. Dean wouldn’t meet Cass’s gaze. 

Not only did he not want to think about it, he didn’t want to talk about it either. 

Cass bit his lip and then with a flare of grace, he healed the cuts, leaving only scars behind. “Dean, I rebuilt your body in hell. I remember what scars I removed. And when I spoke to you, you said you were done.” Dean sighed. “I am.” Cass looked at him. “Are you?” Dean tugged on his sleeve. “It’s not like you can help me.” Cass groaned in frustration. “That’s just it Dean! We, I, can help you. You just have to tell me when you need it and when you don’t!” Dean flinched a little as Cass raised his voice. Cass sighed again and reached out his hand. “I'm sorry Dean. I'm just tired of you thinking we can’t help you, or that it’s wrong to be helped.” Dean nodded. Then, after a while, he spoke again. “Okay.” Cass brightened up. “Okay?” Dean nodded. “When I and Sammy lived with Bobby, I and Bobby had an arrangement. If I wore short sleeves to bed I was clean. If I wore long, I was struggling. He used to watch, just to make sure it was all okay.” Cass nodded, and then he tucked his hand into his lap. “I like that.” Dean nodded. “Yeah. Me too.” 

So maybe he didn’t want to think about it. Maybe he didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe, he didn’t want to dwell on it. 

Maybe, all he wanted, all he truly wanted—besides a good bacon cheeseburger, a beer, some vinyl, and Cass’s plush lips on his—was to move on. 

And maybe, that was the best thing.


End file.
